He and They
by Kay Gryffin
Summary: "He knew the risks, he understood the cons; but he did it anyways." My first completely Yaoi fic.


_**DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN NARUTO. **_

_**ALSO, IT'S MY FIRST YAOI LEMON FIC SO IT MAY BE CRAPPY.**_

* * *

"You love me. Real or not real?"  
I tell him, "Real."

-Suzanne Collins

_Mockingjay _

* * *

It wasn't forbidden, but it also wasn't right, either. It wasn't right, but strictly speaking it wasn't wrong. It wasn't wrong, and it wasn't forbidden, so it should've been right.

But it wasn't right

it wasn't right all

it was a conundrum of the worst sort

because he wasn't sure what it was.

Well, in the physical sense, he knew what it was. Sex, to put it simply; pure and simple. Hot, heavy, and slightly animalistic and definitely carnal sex. Sex that he enjoyed oh, so thoroughly. Sex that could make his head spin if he thought too much about it; sex that was the best thing about his day, his week, his month, year, decade, century, _existence_. He never thought he'd enjoy sex as much as he did, but then again, the person he was engaged in with was probably the best partner to do it with, because _They_ didn't care what he did for him, as long as they both did it to the best of their ability—which, much to his enjoyment, they did; if _Their_ screams of pleasure was anything remotely similar to proof of the fact. Bondage, exhibitionism, subjugation, sado-masochism; they together did anything and everything, and _They_ enjoyed the thrill because through everything, nothing something to be getting them caught.

It was dangerous

and it was amazing

and while he wished it wouldn't end

at the same time, he wanted it to.

He wasn't a person who liked the feeling of being confused—in fact, he tried to avoid it if at all possible. The type of job he had requested that he keep a clear mind that was above and on every situation that could possibly thrown out at him. He couldn't afford to be conflicted, confused, misunderstanding, or preoccupied. If he was any of those things, his ass risked getting fired. Being fired was exactly the last thing he could possibly want. Not to say he couldn't get another job, but he would really rather not have a mark on his resume that was anything less than satisfactory.

He knew the risks

he understood the cons

but he did it anyways.

Why, he had no clue whatsoever. Maybe the escape from the regularity of a humdrum life was something he craved so desperately deep down and the desire was simply now consuming him in his entirety. Maybe the adrenaline rush he got from it was simply too amazing to give up. Maybe despite all his complaining he really was a masochist deep down, and enjoyed the marks left on his skin for all to see. Maybe he enjoyed the feeling of being dominated, or subjugated; and enjoyed the feeling of being a necessary part in someone else's life; a sense of regularity and steadiness. Maybe he was enthralled with the ability that he had over _Them_; this capability to make _Them_ weak at the knees just at the mention of a new game that they together would be playing.

Maybe it was all of those and more

he didn't know

he tried to play as if it didn't matter

that didn't mean to say he didn't care, however.

* * *

When people saw him in the street, they saw a powerful man capable of powerful things. A well-pressed, dry-cleaned, tailored suit and a no-nonsense attitude could get you that far without any problem whatsoever, but he knew that most people knew him past his appearance. They knew of his reputation.

He was a "disappear artist"—which, in his world, meant that he made problems go away. Cheated on your wife? No, you didn't. You have no mistress in Minnesota. You have no mistress in Albequerce. These women have never seen you before. Those claims were never made. Those children aren't yours. At least, they wouldn't be with a little tempering with a paternity test; all for the low price of three hundred thousand dollars deposited into a nondescript bank account under the name Mark Twain. Or Edgar Poe. John Steinback, sometimes. Perhaps even Reginald Hill. It didn't matter. Everyone who mattered knew who he was, what he did. People on the streets knew what he was capable of. Get into contact with him, he can do wonders. Some called him the business world's ninja. He didn't care what he was called, as long as he got paid.

People feared him

and he didn't mind it

what mattered to him was what **_He_** thought of him.

When he caught the male, he'd been surprised. **_He_** was a more innocent type, in his opinion (or, more correctly, former opinion). **_He_** was from a different sort of life than he was from. A different world, even. Speaking with an analytical outlook, they shouldn't even have a thing in common, and therefore, nothing to speak about. And plus... he was a male.

That part was the oddest part for him. Up until meeting this oddity, he'd been into a very particular group of people-high-powered, light haired, light-eyed, well-endowed females. People he would stay with for a couple of days before calling it quits and moving onto the next target. He was okay with any fetish of any type. He was okay with it all. He could handle everything and anything—his job required as much. It required him to be completely and totally versatile and ready for absolutely anything this world could and would possibly and throw his way.

So why couldn't he handle **_Him_**?

He did his best, and physically; it was possible. Three, sometimes four times a week, he satisfied all of **_His_** physical desires through any means **_He_** asked for. He had sex in the oddest of places at the oddest of times for the best outcomes. Handling **_Him_** physically was fine; he excelled at it in fact. But... emotionally? Mentally? No. He didn't know how. They were on completely different levels. This man—this wondrous man—was far more intelligent than he was. **_He_** was capable of so much more than him. **_He_** could find a partner far more satisfying than he was. Or more normal—preferably more normal. **_He_** deserved normal.

Why didn't **_He_** leave

why did **_He_** stay

why did he feel this way... this way that made him believe he'd keel over and die if **_He_** simply left

since when was simple and satisfying sex a _complication?_

* * *

He saw _Them_ for the first time at work.

He knew fully well who _They_ were when he came in. How could he not? Every high-powered business that had its foot in every industry known to man had its share of scandals. What the current scandal was, he wasn't sure. He'd long since stopped paying attention to any of that bull crap. It wasn't in his job description to care about it. What he was, before all else, was an office lackey. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn't want to be involved in anything even remotely similar to his boss's lives. It simply wasn't something that made a difference in his life. It didn't make the pay any better. It didn't help make affording his apartment any easier. It was a trivial matter that he chose to pay no mind to.

He didn't care about the scandals or why _They _were called in, but he, like every other employee, noticed _Them _when _They_ came in. It was impossible not to. Here comes a proud, well-off man with a successful career (no matter how back-door the career was) and an aura about _Them_ that made one wish that they could keel to any command that came from _Them_ perfect face—only an idiot wouldn't stare, and he didn't think of himself as an idiot of any sort.

_They, _upon existing that elevator

walked as if _They_ owned that 49th floor of that building

_Their_ eyes not gracing any one person with more than a moment of a gaze

including himself.

Of course, that quickly changed when he accidentally spilled coffee on _Their_ front after running back from Starbucks' on East 41st from a lunch break that he was late coming back from. He'd been meeting up with his best friend and they'd been talking so long that they'd gone overtime. Running back, he somehow managed to not notice the bike messenger who decided to rip up the sidewalk instead of the street until they'd been practically on top of him. In an effort to keep himself from getting injured, he jumped to the side and tackled _Them _down to the ground and nailed _Their _slick black suit with the remnants of his black coffee.

He expected to get the shit kicked out of him

if not killed

but he didn't expect

_Them_ to stand up

and offer him a hand.

* * *

That first time he saw _**Him**_—really saw him—**_He'd_** football-tackled him to the ground and spilled lukewarm black and overly sweetened coffee all over his suit.

Usually, his first reaction would be to get up and kick some ass

however

he found himself interested

in that messy bedhead of brown hair

and those large loose wrinkly earlobe that begged to be plugged with something

and those odd tattoos that he could see whenever **_He_** moved **_His_** arms.

He helped _**Him** _without thinking about it, shaking his head in response whenever **_He_ **offered in that flustered way of **_His_** to pay for the cleaning of his suit, and apologized six ways from Sunday for having dirtied it. If it were anyone else, he might've minded. But he'd never felt as interested in someone as he was in this man. _**He** _was an intriguing and seemingly-innocent worker bee in a grungy, punky sort of way, what with the obvious marks of lobe expansion and the tattoos on both **_His_** arms and even **_His_** cheeks.

He had no doubts that **_He'd_** spent a plethora of nights in the depths of a mosh pit

running around

and hitting

and kicking wildly

in the beat of the pounding drums

and the rhythm of the screeching guitar.

**_He_ **apologized again, and at that, he gave the soft vestiges of a smile.

"Tell me your name," he requested.

_**He** _did.

"Don't worry about the suit," he told **_Him_**, "I can clean it. It's a non-issue."

**_He_ **asked again if he could clean it.

"Nope," he responded, smirking. "I think I've kept you long enough. Coming back from lunch? You were running, so were you late?"

**_He_** nodded.

"Tell your boss that _I_ kept you after. Tell him I wanted a fuller background to feed to the Times," he said.

**_His _**eyes went so wide that he was sure they'd bug out of **_His_** head, and **_He_** immediately started thanking him.

"It's no problem."

It wasn't until they parted ways that he realized that he really was telling the truth with that last statement. A life of lies and dropping lies on top of lies to make them go away makes you really get used to the idea of never saying a single truth. It makes someone really appreciate a singular truth, and that singular truth was the first truth he'd spoken to someone who wasn't related to him or truly close to him in about three years.

* * *

The next time he saw _Them_, it was at his best friend's wedding six months later—the same best friend he'd been at that Starbucks so late for to meet up with. She was one of two people he'd ever call a best friend, and so of course he called sick from work in order to attend her wedding. He wanted to stand beside her when she came to the altar, but her father was a traditionalist at heart so he had to stand alongside her groom and his best man.

_They _were the best man

and _They _must've recognized him

because

_They _greeted him by name.

"Ah... uh... I didn't think you would remember me," he whispered after _They _questioned his look of surprise.

_They _smirked at him and mentioned that he was slightly distinguishing.

He looked down at the back of his hands after rubbing tattooed cheeks, where the edge of his tattoos was peaking out from underneath his black jacket. Oh. "You saw them?"

_They _nodded, and then mentioned that the office he worked in seemed like the straight-laced type that would've normally fired him for it.

"No. I'm too good at my job." He smiled lopsidedly. "As long as I don't come into work with my tapers in and I cover them all up, they don't care."

That was pretty much the end of all conversation, due to the fact that the music signalling the entrance of the bride came up, and he didn't get a chance to start a conversation with _Them _again until the reception. And, even then, he didn't. He wasn't sure why _They _were interested in speaking with him. He was normal. He lived a normal life. There was absolutely nothing special about him, or his job, or his life. _They _were all sorts of interesting. He heard rumors about _Them_ fathering five children. He heard stories about _Them _being the owner of several islands in the south Pacific. He heard tales about _Them_ single-handedly getting the current present president into office. _Their _entire life was something out of a movie. He couldn't level up to that.

"Dance with me," requested his best friend, interrupting him from his thoughts.

He smiled into her beautiful face. "Okay."

Her now-husband was busy talking it up with _Them_, and so she decided that their first dance would wait until they finished. "They're talking business, I suppose," she sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"How do they know each other?" he asked.

"Well, you know what he does, right?" she asked, and he nodded. "Well, they were mentor and student."

"Your husband is a disappear artist?" he asked, raising his brows. Talk about financial security.

"Yes. I met him through my father. My dad was friends with _his _mentor," she said softly, "Who just so happens to be the president's late father."

He whistled. "Small world."

She giggled softly. "Yes, it is."

"So have you talked to him?"

"Occasionally. He's quite difficult to speak with, actually. He doesn't start conversations."

"Really?" he asked, brow furrowing. It certainly hadn't seemed that way when they'd spoken at the altar.

"Really. I don't think he likes me, though, so that may be why," she said.

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Because I did the impossible. I tied down his mentor."

"That you most certainly did," said the mentor in question, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into him. She giggled, turning pink in the cheeks, and he kissed each one without hesitation. He looked up at him with those mismatched eyes of his, amusement lighting up the orbs. "Sorry to interrupt your dance, but my socially inept student wants to speak with you."

He frowned. "Where?"

"Went out to the balcony I think."

His face scrunched up. "It's cold."

"Yup. Have fun with that."

* * *

**_He _**was cold. In retrospect, asking **_Him_** out to the balcony in the middle of February was a stupid notion, but he'd be damned before he allowed any of these people in attendance (most of whom had probably never even _met_ his mentor before in their entire lives) to hear what he was saying. This was… private. There was no other way to put it other than that. It was simply a private matter, between himself and **_Him_**.

"Sorry, are you cold?" he asked softly.

**_He _**grumbled out a yes.

"I'll try to be brief, then. I am interested in you."

**_He _**immediately looked confused _and_ angry, and asked him what he thought this was.

His mentor was right; he was really inept when it came to talking to people on a friendly stage. Something to work on, perhaps? "Not sexual. I apologize for any misconstrued notion I caused. What I mean is… I'd like to know you better."

**_He _**cocked **_His_** head to the side and asked if he wanted to be friends.

"I suppose," he responded, nodding and pulling out one of business cards from his pocket. "Here. You can contact me this way."

**_He _**frowned and asked if it was his cell on this card.

"I need to be reached at odd times. It is my cell, and my business phone number."

**_He _**asked for a home phone.

He smirked at that. "No. The only person who has it is the groom. Please don't take it personally."

He hoped to God that **_He_** wouldn't take it personally

because

**_He_** was too interesting for him to want **_Him_** to take it personally.

* * *

The month faded into the next, and into the next, and before he really knew it, it was six months later and he was still deliberating giving _Them _a call. To say he was hesitant was putting it extremely mildly. He was admittedly curious as to the reasons _They _had behind giving him a way to get into contact with _Them_, but at the same time, he was scared to call and find out that _They _didn't even remember him. Didn't even know him.

Because

that would hurt

that would hurt a lot.

He probably would've kept avoiding calling, but circumstances had called for it, circumstances that were far out of his control; as was much that was involved in the hell that is known as life.

He was at a concert all night—not just any concert; mind you, but an Asking Alexandria concert. An Asking Alexandria concert that he had ended up in the middle of a mosh pit of. An Asking Alexandria mosh pit that, after its effects, some of its members slipped him some drugs. A drug which, in the heat of the moment, he decided to take, not knowing that the drug in question, in its little capsules, was some crushed up ecstasy and, apparently, Sildenafil. Or, as it usually went by, Viagra.

It was embarrassing, but also amazing that he didn't die. The ecstasy made him loopy and excited, and the Viagra… _made him excited. _Powerfully so, in fact. When he'd tried to take care of the issue in the restroom, it still wasn't gone. He'd ridden the train all the way back to Brooklyn trying to hide the tent in his pants with the drawstring bag he'd been smart enough to bring.

And then came the problem

and that was

he couldn't get rid of it himself

and he didn't know who to ask to get rid of it.

After about the fifth time jerking off, he was worried that he'd have to go to the hospital, and he certainly wasn't in any state to drive, nor was he overly eager to walk in and ask them to _stick his dick with a needle. _No. He couldn't do that to himself.

He had groaned and deliberated calling the police, house phone in hand, when his eyes landed on _Their _business card.

He tried to fight it, but… but he needed help. Awkward as may be, he needed the help.

* * *

He had been in the middle of a threesome with two buxom blond women when his cell phone went off. An odd time, but business was business and the scandals never stopped, not even for a moment of pleasure that he really wasn't finding with either of these women, or the women he'd had earlier, or the ones from yesterday. For about six months, he hadn't been really been fucking rather than simply having sex for the sake of routine. Funny. It started being about pleasure the night of his mentor's wedding. The same night he asked **_Him _**to give him a call.

Six months of silence

and

six months of a lack of satisfaction.

He pushed one girl off his nipple, but allowed the other to continue with her empathetical attempt at giving him head. He saw no reason not to allow the continuation of such a heart-felt blowjob. It was getting him off, but it wasn't really spectacular so it wouldn't leave him unable to speak on the phone. He picked up his iPhone, not even pausing to look at the unrecognized number.

* * *

_They _picked up

_They picked up_

If he were a girl, he'd squeal right now.

"I… um… do you remember me?" he asked, fumbling with his words.

He could almost hear the awkwardness, and then _They _asked for his name.

Like an idiot, he'd forgotten to say his _name_. Voices sounded different over the phone, especially after six months!

_Idiot_, he chastised himself.

* * *

How could he have not recognized that voice over the phone?

He nearly pushed the girl off of his dick.

"Agh… I'm sorry," he apologized, fumbling over his words for the first time. The girl he'd pushed off his nipple whined, but he ignored them. "I didn't recognize your voice over the phone. What's up? How are you?"

**_He _**winced audibly over the phone, and he frowned. What was wrong? Was **_He_** hurt? His blood boiled at the very thought of it. He couldn't be hurt. No way in hell could they be hurt.

"What's wrong?" he asked, now pushing the girl off. She complained, but he didn't care.

**_He _**was in pain

**_He _**was suffering

and

someone was going to pay for it.

**_He_** tried to stop him, but he was already pulling on a pair of black jeans. "Where are you?" he asked, fishing for a clean pair of boxers.

**_He _**responded with a 'home'. Such a beautiful, nondescript little word.

"Give me your address," he immediately ordered.

As if it were a job

as if it were his problem

because to him

anyone who fucked with **_Him_**

just fucked with him, too.

He pushed the girls out of his apartment before locking it behind him, flying out of the building, to the parking lot, and to his expensive car that he seldom ever drove (even with his reputation, getting a parking space in New York City was a bitch; and it was more intimidating to come out of his company's limousine than the carbon black Aston Martin V12 Vantage, somehow). Before he even knew it, he was already on the BrooklynBridge, already on his way to the happily easily-accessible Prospect Park area of Brooklyn.

"I'll be there in ten."

* * *

Though given proper and more than adequate warning, he hadn't expected the bell to be ringing when it did. Flustered beyond belief, as well as excited, he sprinted to the door, yanking it open and nearly off its hinges—he'd left it unlocked because _They _were coming—and pulled _Them _into his apartment, not giving even a moment to think. Overcome with the drugs in his system, he grabbed _Them_ and shoved them against the wall as he slammed the door shut, not thinking as he slammed his lips down upon _Theirs_, erection twitching, begging for a release.

Naturally, however

(because one does not simply tackle someone and expect to get away with it)

he was punched

for what had to be the umpteenth time that night

and for the first time that night

it was on purpose.

_They _were beet red, the same color as _Their _abnormal red eyes, and _They _were livid. Actually, he wasn't quite sure livid covered it, but what with the need for a release being denied with several unsatisfying and painful dry orgasms and the fact that the drugs responsible for inducing it were still running powerfully through his body, along with the strong amounts of lust, worry, fear, and just general need; he couldn't think of another word to describe it beside livid. All he could think to do was palm himself, moaning like some porn star or whore, eyes half-lidded. Now that _They _were there, he wanted to beg for _Their _help. He would bend over backwards for it. He needed it; needed _Them_.

When he looked up _Them _again

the livid look was gone

and replaced with interest

and lust

and uncertainty

but mostly lust.

He moaned again, arching his back as he tore back off the loose pajama bottoms he'd managed to put on when he got home, one hand teasing his erect member, the other fondling his testicles. It felt so damned good. He wanted it to be gone. Now. He needed it gone now.

"Please," he begged.

* * *

**_He _**was begging for him.

Begging.

His heart thumped in his chest as beheld the writhing, begging, lustful and sexually _ready _young man laying on the floor of **_His_** apartment, masturbating without a care to anything around **_Him_**. What was wrong, he still didn't know, but he'd have to be an idiot to not figure that it had nothing to do with the raging erection. How long had **_He _**had it? Why hadn't **_He_** gone to the hospital?

Why

out of everyone possible

did **_He_** call

_him_?

Did **_He_** somehow know that he lacked self-restraint and general decency?

In the back of his mind, he wondered if he was even truly sexually attracted to **_Him_** but then _**He** _moaned again and he quickly decided that he was, and it was something he'd think about later, because right now... right now duty seemed to be calling to him.

He got onto his knees in front of **_His_**, pushing _**His**_ legs apart and settling himself between the two [bare] thighs that hid a rosy pucker that he fully intended on exploiting. He smirked to himself as he gently managed to pull **_His_ **hands from his balls, leveling his face with the sex organs and fondling them with his tongue. **_He_ **arched again, whimpering piteously.

**_He_** was like putty

in his hands

and he fully intended

on using **_His_** body

however he liked.

A hand—his hand—began to lazily stroke, up and down, the erected male organ that he'd pushed **_Him_ **away from, making **_Him_** beg aloud for more, allowed **_Him_** to whimper and sob and moan and groan to **_His_** heart's content. He did it not with the intention of torturing, but with the intention of pleasuring. He wanted to hear everything **_He_ **had to offer and more. Absolutely everything.

He licked around the tip of it before mercilessly plunging it deep into his mouth. In the back of his mind, he realized that this was only the second blowjob he'd ever given in his life—the first having gone to his idiotic best friend, AKA the current president [a secret he promised to take to the grave for the sake of his wife] and worried about whether or not it was any good until **_He_ **screamed his name at the top of **_His_** very capable lungs, thrashing and writhing some more. Smiling around it, he sucked as hard as he could, tongue flat against the bottom as he moved his lips up and down, his hands pushing down on **_His_ **hips in an effort to keep **_Him_** from going too deep and triggering his gag reflex.

Because it would be

a major mood killer

if he puked in the middle of giving head.

* * *

Lights flashed and danced and strobed behind his closed eyelids, accompanied by the music that were his own moans and shouts and whines and pleas. His body shook with the heat that enveloped him from head to toe, losing control over himself as _They _sucked on him, as _They_ used those dangerous and feared lips of _Theirs _on his dick, sucking as if _Their _life depended on it.

"Ah! Ah! More! Please!" he sobbed.

_They _merely chuckled and made him moan louder.

_They _were torturing him

by doing this

by not listening to him

by refusing to go further

and denying his release

which he so desperately needed.

"I'll do anything!" he promised, body attempting to arch more but those warm hands on his hips were refusing him.

Just like _They _were refusing him.

* * *

His smirk changed into a full-blown smile as his free hand made its way to that rosy pucker he so wanted to try out, his finger pressing against the warm muscle. _**He** _swore loudly, trying to tug himself away, but he wouldn't have that.

"Ah-ah-ah. You promised anything," he reminded him.

* * *

Fuck that! Anything but that!

He writhed, trying to get away this time rather than get closer, but his body wasn't trying as hard as it should. He watched _Them _raise _Their _hand to his lips, and gave a simple, one word instruction.

"Suck."

* * *

"No! Fuck that!"

He frowned. He wasn't expecting a no.

However, he would not be deterred. "Suck it or I'll finger you dry."

"I don't want to bottom."

"You called _me,_" he reminded **_Him_ **pointedly, "If you wanted a willing hole, you should've called a bitch. You called me."

"I... I don't know what I was thinking. I'm not in firm of mind."

"I don't need you to be to fuck you. It's not a requirement."

"Why can't I fuck you?"

He hummed. "Maybe later. Not right now. I want your ass. Now suck."

He knew that it was possible that he wouldn't have won

however

**_He _**needed release more.

"I fuck you right after," _**He** _ordered.

He smirked. "Sure. Now suck it so I can finger you."

"Fuck," **_He _**whimpered before **_He _**allowed his digits past **_His_** lips, sucking as hard as **_He_** could on them and giving them as much saliva as the glands would allow. He stared, enthralled by the extreme amount of effort **_He_** was giving in, allowing a low moan to escape his lips.

"Stop," he ordered, ripping his fingers away and, without ceremony, shoving them into **_His _**tight little hole.

* * *

He arched off of the floor, curse words leaving his lips as he tried to ignore the considerable amount of pain he felt at the breach. He wanted to scream his head off and beg _Them_ to stop, but…

…that part _They_ were touching did feel awfully good.

Especially when _They _

angled _Their _fingers

just like that.

"G-God!" he moaned, trying to get back the same feeling by thrusting into _Their _fingers, now unabashedly horny and really wanting this. He was still mad that _he _was the one getting anally fucked, but then again, why not enjoy this? After all, it obviously felt good—and by good, he meant absolutely mind-blowingly amazing. He wanted more, simply put. He actually liked this feeling, this feeling of being touched in this intimate and slightly odd way, this feeling of getting truly _fucked. _

"Like it?" _They _teased, twisting _Their _fingers as they tapped against his prostate, making him swear and moan. _They _grinned cheekily down at him and began to spread his tight ring, bringing back some pain but not an unbearable amount, not like when _They'd_ shoved them in to begin with out ceremony. "Loooove it?" _They _had the audacity to purr at him.

"I AM GOING TO FUCK YOU INTO THE GROUND WHEN THIS IS THROUGH!" he proclaimed through his moans.

"If you live through this," _They _told him, _Their_ free hand returning to fondling his testicles as _They _leaned over him, _Their_ tongue escaping _Their _lips and flicking against a hard nipple before taking it between _Their_ teeth, turning it without problem. Sweat made his body glisten, and his pants became harder as he felt his peak coming around, all of this playing with him getting to his head. He could hardly think straight. All he wanted to do was scream his name and beg for mercy and just revel in this feeling and _oh holy shit how good that felt! _

"More! More! Harder!" he moaned.

"Don't rush this," _They _teased.

"Fuck you! I've been hard for hours! If I ask for more, _give me fucking **more**_!"

"You didn't ask, though," _They _said, suddenly mischievous and having him fearing the worse. _They _removed that hand from his testicles and withdrew from his asshole almost all the way, leaving only the tip of _Their_ fingers in the tight ring. He began writhing again, pushing against the digits in an attempt to get them to strike his prostate again.

"Fuck me!" he begged.

"Here's how we're doing this. I will fuck you, just as you want, only if you truly ask… and ask politely. Use my name. And make sure that I know that you… really… want… my… hard… cock," _They _purred evilly as _They_ shoved _Their_ hand underneath _Their_ jeans, stroking _Their _own hard-on. _They_ groaned with the feeling, keeping eye contact with him as _They_ shallowly thrust _Their _digits into his tight hole and stroked themselves to the sight of him. He wanted to be angry at _Them_ for prolonging his desperately needed release, but damn, he…

He fucking liked this.

"P-Please…" he said, needy beyond belief, reaching out for _Them_ with outstretched fingers, "Please, please, fuck me…"

"You forgot my name," _They_ reminded him, "Say my name with your polite question—no vulgarity, or I will walk out."

He gulped. "Please, please… please have sex with me… make me feel good... oh, God, please, Sasuke…"

* * *

His name sounded so sexy leaving **_His_** lips.

Sasuke grinned, removing his hand finally, ignoring **_His _**groaned complaint as he stood up, making a show out of stripping himself of his clothing, making sure that **_He _**got the full experience of what he was getting, from the thin hairs on his chest, to the thin line from his navel leading into his waistband, to the lean musculature that was his upper body. By the time he'd actually pulled off his shirt, **_He _**was already playing with himself again.

"I've never been so attracted to a guy before," **_He _**admitted softly.

He nodded, smirking. "That makes the two of us," he said without thinking, a fact which he questioned later, realizing it was true. Moving slowly, he unbuckled his belt, undoing the button just as slowly (something he never did and was only doing to continue to tease). **_He _**moaned, entire body quivering with anticipation. Before he pulled down his zip, heleveled **_Him_** with a stare. "Why me?" he finally asked.

"I… I dunno… but we're here now… so do it… please… I want you… Sasuke, please…" **_He_** replied, **_His_** voice practically a hoarse whisper.

He had **_Him_** wrapped completely around his finger

and he didn't want to let go of that sort of control

_ever_.

He yanked off his pants, getting onto his knees and yanking **_Him_** towards him, not hesitating on impaling Him with his cock.

"FUCK! SASUKE! SASUKE! SASUKE!"

* * *

It was painful

so painful

but

it felt

so

fucking

good.

He moaned like a first-class whore as Sasuke thrust into him relentlessly, not going gentle or sweet, but rather plowing into him hard and fast with real power behind the movements of those enticing hips of his. He couldn't keep his eyes open now as he let this feeling take him over, let Sasuke push his legs into his chest, let Sasuke press his chest against the back of his thighs, let Sasuke's hands leave their bruises all over his legs where he gripped him too harshly, let Sasuke's dick continue to throw him absolutely wild and out of control as he helped him get rid of the drug's effects. His mind had gone almost completely blank of his usual proud thoughts, instead falling into the feeling that was completely _Sasuke. _

Though Sasuke had been adamant about him being the 'pitcher', he otherwise submitted to _his _will. When he asked Sasuke to play with his balls, he did it. When he asked Sasuke to lick his nipples, he did. And when he asked Sasuke to go harder, Sasuke was unhesitant to do exactly that. He didn't switch positions until he asked, which, much to his own surprise, he did ask for,—pressing his stomach against the hardwood floor, Sasuke's strong body above his, moving unrelenting in and out of him, driving him absolutely crazy.

Why hadn't he tried this before, sex with men? It was fucking amazing!

"Sasuke! More! I'm close! My dick! Touch my dick!" he begged

Sasuke panted out a laugh—or a moan, he couldn't tell—and peeled off his back, pulling up his hips as he straightened his back, his hand grasping the painfully erect penis between the legs of the subject of his passions, moving up and down the shaft with quick movements, Sasuke's other hand tangling into the messy brown locks that covered his head. He screamed when he felt Sasuke's fingers tugging on his head, expecting it to be from pain but finding that it was from pleasure.

When had pain transferred into pleasure?

He felt his peak arising, and he found himself even less in control of himself as he pulled himself up, pressing his back into Sasuke's chest and widening his legs as Sasuke sat back on his heels, the new angle somehow adding to increase his pleasure to an previously assumed impossible point.

* * *

_**He**_ was screeching in his ears, but unlike when the whores he slept with did it, Sasuke found it enjoyable to hear. Without even really hearing the words that _**He**_ was saying, he thrust harder, faster; the peak he was so looking forwards to on the visible horizons. He'd never felt this way before, with anyone. Not with the whores, not with the sluts, not with anyone. Never before did he see those stars dancing in his vision, those stars that people talked about when having sex. Never before did his body gleam with the sweat from the effort of pleasing his partner and only his partner, and in that finding pleasure himself.

This was new

this was amazing

and he wanted more.

"I'm coming," he whispered hotly into **_His_** ear, knowing he didn't have much left and that **_He_** didn't either. "I want you to scream for me."

_**He**_ leaned _**His**_ head back against his shoulder, eyes closed tight, body moving with the strength of Sasuke's thrusts. "You better scream for me, too," He ordered through his moans and pants.

Sasuke chuckled. Of course even now _**He**_ would try to be dominate. "Of course I will."

_**He**_ opened _**His**_ mouth to speak more, but instead of words, more moans fell out of _**His **_lips, and Sasuke took it as a sign to speed up his hand job. He was really interested in seeing this orgasm, this—

Ho

_ly _

shit.

Back arching, eyes wide open, body quivering, skin flaming, semen spurting out of the red angry tip; that orgasm of **_His_** was something that Sasuke only read about in those porn novels. In this moment, **_He_** was the definition of pure sexuality, pure hotness, and that was what had Sasuke tipping over his own edge, spilling own semen into **_His_** tight opening as he yelled one two-syllable word alongside with **_His_** long scream of his name:

"KIBA!"

* * *

It was that night that he agreed to be lovers.

It was still confounding.

It was always confounding.

But

the thing was

he liked being confounded

he liked being Sasuke Uchiha's lover

because he liked to feel good

because he liked to feel amazing

because he knew that even though he was confused

and scared

and worried about where they would end

and what they would become

that he loved Sasuke Uchiha

and that wouldn't change.

* * *

That night he became lovers with Kiba Inuzuka was the oddest night of his life.

It'd been pleasurable

and exciting

and amazing

and he had found the best lay in his life

and it was also confusing

and scary

and too emotional for words to describe

and it had him confused

angry

afraid

overly protective

vulnerable

and _happy. _

_So happy. _

Being with Kiba made him happy. He was odd and fascinating and so much not like the world he lived in that he somehow slipped and fell into love with him.

He figured out how his teacher felt when he married Hinata. He would do anything for him—and, with the type of world he lived in, was only short of sending all those who caused him wrong into the sun.

He loved him.

He wanted him.

* * *

And so

* * *

when Kiba asked Sasuke to be his boyfriend

* * *

and Sasuke asked Kiba to move in with him

* * *

_**He** _

* * *

_They_

* * *

(knowing the cons)

* * *

(knowing it wasn't right [but wasn't wrong])

* * *

said

* * *

_yes_.

**END**

**My birthday gift (it is my birthday this week) for all of you guys.  
**

**Reviews?**


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